On Golden Wings
by Democratus
Summary: AU where Jon Arryn's second wife died giving birth to a living son, Alaric Arryn, who was eventually sent to foster at Casterly Rock. How will Alaric's presence change the Game of Thrones? Starts the day Jon Arryn's death is announced. And yes, this does involve an OC, and no, I won't be making him too overpowered. Rating mostly applies for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Brief A/N: Hi all, some of you, though not many I imagine, may be familiar with another GoT fic I used to write called From the Ashes, in which Jaime Lannister survives King's Landing. I didn't really feel inspired with it anymore, although it is possible I may take it up again at some point in the future. I have a good feeling about this fic though, but I can't promise how regular updates will be. :p**

**Without further ado:**

On Golden Wings

_Concentrate on the steel in your hand and your enemy's face. He'll give the game away when he's about to lunge, look at his mouth and his eyes._

The teachings of Jaime Lannister swirled through his head like smoke on the breeze, present but not intrusive. Most of Alaric's attention was, as his former mentor had ordered, focused on his blunted training sword and Ser Benedict Broom's aged, wise face as the two circled each other in the training yard at Casterly Rock. Sweat dampened his blonde hair and dripped down his forehead, and he found himself squinting a bit to see through the harsh sun's light. Ser Benedict always insisted upon training during the warmest parts of the day, to build up Alaric's endurance and stamina. He could practically hear the old codger now, from when they first met upon Alaric's arrival at Casterly Rock around eight years ago.

"Ignore the heat, Alaric. You won't get the comfort of the perfect time of day in a real battle, so there's no use getting accustomed to it," he'd said as he thoroughly out-sparred his younger opponent.

After what felt like an eternity Ser Benedict did, as Ser Jaime had told Alaric he would, give away the game and grimace as he lunged. With a deft parry and riposte the old master at arms found himself defeated, with Alaric's blade inches from his neck. With a laugh, Ser Benedict dropped his blade in surrender.

"Well fought, Alaric! You're a demon with that blade, my lad. Almost reminds me of Jaime at your age, I can see he taught you well back when you squired for him." Alaric grinned, practically glowing with pride; Ser Benedict never gave undeserved praise. Despite this, he did try his best to keep himself humble; undue arrogance had killed many a man.

"It was nothing, Ser Benedict, just a fluke. And I'm nothing on Ser Jaime, he's the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms now that Ser Arthur's dead and Ser Barristan has become so old. Jaime'd lop my sorry head off in about ten seconds."

Ser Benedict just shook his head, still grinning as the two of them put their training equipment back and splashed some water over their faces. "Aye, maybe, but he'd take about three with anyone else, so take what you can get," he said as he clapped Alaric on the back and began to leave. As he washed his hot, sweaty face off and pulled on some clothes nicer than the rags he'd been wearing to train in, he barely even felt the sun's heat anymore.

His self-contained revelry was rudely interrupted by a squire, red-faced and panting. The boy looked like he'd run there all the way from Dragonstone. "It's Lord Tywin, Ser Alaric. He wants to speak with you in his solar at your earliest convenience." Judging by the speed at which the messenger had clearly made his way here and nearly a decade's experience living with Tywin Lannister, Alaric inferred that "at your earliest convenicne" in reality meant "now."

"You may tell him I'll be there at once." As the squire scurried off to inform Lord Tywin, Alaric took his time putting on his favored sky-blue doublet and set off at a much more leisurely pace. It would have taken a while to reach the room anyway; the Rock was three times taller than the Wall up north and the solar of the Lord Paramount was rather near the top. When he finally reached the imposing oaken door, Tywin's voice boomed through it before Alaric even knocked.

"You may enter." Alaric obliged, and stepped through to find the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands , Tywin Lannister, sat at his desk with a raven scroll in front of him. Taking the hint, Alaric crossed the room and sat opposite Tywin, who pushed the scroll towards him. "Read it."

Alaric took the scroll in his hands, and began to read.

_Lord Jon of House Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale and Warden of the East, has died of a fever. In his last moments, Lord Arryn disowned his son Ser Alaric Arryn. Ser Alaric Arryn is no longer to be considered an heir to the Vale, and as such all of Lord Arryn's lands and titles are to be passed to Robin Arryn when he comes of age._

Mind blank, Alaric simply placed the parchment down on the table for a moment and simply sat there. Tywin, across the table, seemed to be watching him carefully for his reaction. Eventually, the cold impassivity that had swept across his mind was replaced by a sharp, crimson rage, and Alaric had to stop himself from leaping from his chair and slicing the letter into tiny pieces with a battleaxe. Instead, his hands curled into fists and he looked up at Tywin. "My father didn't disown me." His voice seemed to almost vibrate with fury.

Lord Tywin arched an eyebrow. "It certainly says here that he did."

A nasty, derisive snort escaped the former Heir to the Vale. "Those are not his words, and not his actions. I'd wager a thousand dragons it was my _bitch _of a stepmother, trying to clear the way for her little Sweetrobin. My father has-" for a moment he stumbled over the crushing reality that Jon Arryn had _died,_ "had no reason to rob me of my birthright like this."

Lord Tywin nodded briskly; it struck Alaric that the Old Lion had probably known this already, and had simply been testing how he would react to the news of his father's death and his own disinheritance. "I agree, it would be in keeping with her rather … touched nature." His eyes found Alaric's, and green met blue. "What will you do about it?"

At first a gaping pit of despair seemed to open in his stomach at the prospect of doing anything with the now nonexistent power he held, but reason prevailed, and managed to strongarm him into a response, albeit a glum one. "I don't believe there's much I can do, my Lord. The King will never listen to me, so I cannot appeal to the Crown for aid. I could travel to the Vale myself and hope to rally support enough to challenge Lysa's hold, and I might even win some support. Many of the Lords of the Vale have no love for Lysa or my sickly stepbrother, and will doubtless be angered I have been robbed of my claim; Lord Royce and Lord Redfort come to mind. But even if I do somehow raise an army and storm the Eyrie, King Robert will just crush us as traitors." It was almost painful to think about it. With a few sentences scrawled on a scroll, his entire life had been flattened.

Tywin smirked, almost a smile. Alaric hadn't been aware previously that the man _could _smile, but the day had been full of surprises so he took it in stride. "Would you be willing to hear my suggestion?"

From the man's tone and his reputation, Alaric deduced that these _suggestions _were demands, and that he had no choice but to listen to them. "Of course, my Lord."

With a businesslike manner Tywin rummaged in his desk for a moment for a parchment, which he placed on the table before the two of them. "I've taken the liberty of having a new sigil designed for you, seeing as you are no longer supposed to use the traditional Arryn sigil." The parchment displayed a bright gold falcon on a background of deep crimson; the colors of House Lannister. It was a striking coat of arms, Alaric had to admit. Before he could express his gratitude, Lord Tywin spoke again. "I've also had this forged for you, since it seems for now Robin Arryn will be taking up his father's sword." He then placed a rather long object wrapped in a red cloth on the table atop the parchment. Knowing what it likely was, Alaric unwrapped it to find a glittering sword in a handsome red leather sheath. Breathless, he grasped the hilt of the blade, wrapped in red leather to match the scabbard, and withdrew the sword smoothly. The finely polished blade reflected the sunlight flooding into the chamber, creating the brief illusion that the weapon was glowing with some magical light. The guard of the sword was steel, coated with gold and finely detailed to look like a pair of outstretched wings. The pommel was equally well-decorated, resembling the feathered head of a falcon, with two rubies for eyes and another grasped in its beak. Even his father's old sword, he thought, with its luminous silver-plated blade, could not hope to be as fine a weapon as this.

As Alaric swung it about a few times, it seemed to soar like a bird of prey, light and fast and immeasurably deadly. As he did so, Tywin continued. "It's forged of the finest castle steel, by a master smith from Lannisport. I had planned to give it to you before the news came, but it proved to be an opportune time; it was finished today. There is also," he strode over to an armor stand covered by a red curtain, and removed the cover, "this." A gleaming set of plate armor sat upon the stand. Most of it appeared rather similar to the armor worn by that of the highest ranking knights of House Lannister, with some key differences. The pauldrons, normally golden lion heads, were instead shaped like falcons. The helmet was also totally different; rather than the halfhelms normally worn by the Lannisters, it was an intricate barbute with gilded wings affixed to either side of the opening where the wearer's face would be. A large ruby was set in the center of the helmet, above the eyeslits. All of this was accompanied by a chainmail hauberk that was to be worn underneath the layer of plate, each steel ring gold-coated and shining. For a moment, Alaric was speechless, before he turned to Lord Tywin and rushed to speak.

"This must have cost you a fortune - it's more than I deserve. I can't possibly accept all of this, though I thank you for it." Tywin snorted, and grabbed his arm when Alaric attempted to slide the new sword back into its sheath.

"You can accept it, and you will. Your disenranchisement is an injustice, and many other nobles will see it that way. You will take up this sword, you will wear that armor, and you will ride to King's Landing on the morrow to meet up with the royal party before they make their way to Winterfell to appoint Stark as the new Hand of the King. You will befriend the royal children, if you can, but more importantly you will endear yourself to the lords of the court and make it clear you'd be a good Lord Paramount of the Vale. You'll gather support, from a collection of greedy lickspittles and lackeys most likely, who know a good opportunity when they see one. More importantly you will show the other Lords of the Vale just how much better you are than Robin. When they hear of what a _gallant, noble _man you've become, they'll begin to doubt our dear Lady Lysa." The Warden of the West paced over to another table, this one covered with a large, detailed map of Westeros. Alaric followed, feeling almost dazed with the gravity of the situation. Tywin gestured at the map, an even more serious tone creeping into his already humorless voice. "Before long now I expect there will be another war. Things aren't right and the Crown grows weaker by the day, it is only a matter of time before the whole of the Seven Kingdoms will be at war. When that happens, you," Lord Tywin's green eyes once again met Alaric's blue ones, "will rally what support you can from your new allies in King's Landing and enter the Vale. Many of the lords there will flock to your banner, and you will reclaim your birhright."

Alaric found his voice as Tywin paused. "The Vale is impregnable, how would I get past the Bloody Gate? What kinds of allies would I find in King's Landing? Who-" Tywin cut him off tersely. "That will be up to you, you seem clever enough. Now, once you prove victorious and reign over the Vale as Lord Paramount, I will arrange for a marriage between you and Princess Myrcella once it is proven that you're a suitable leader. You will provide heirs to House Arryn and secure your own legacy." Alaric knew that, conveniently for Tywin, his great-grandchildren would rule over another of the Seven Kingdoms and secure the Lannister legacy too, but he chose not to voice this observation. "Does this plan seem agreeable to you, Ser Alaric?"

He knew he had but one response. "It does, my lord. Thank you, my lord."

Tywin clapped him on the back, approvingly. "Good. Now, go collect your things and prepare to leave; you must go tomorrow to meet the royal caravan in time."

The following day, Ser Alaric Arryn rode through the Lion's Mouth, the legendary gates of Casterly Rock, in gleaming gilded armor on a white stallion. A glittering sword hung by his side, and a crimson shield with a golden falcon emblazoned on it was fastened to his saddle. A red cloak flowed like a river of blood in the air behind him as his pale blonde hair was also stirred by the breeze. In his wake rode his young page, Damon Wydman. Alaric was still downtrodden from the news of the previous day, but he was bolstered by a new hope, a new dedication, a new determination. He would rise again, he told himself, from this pit he had been cast into by his stepmother, and he would do it while flying on golden wings. With a shout, he spurred his horse and raced east to the Capital, followed by his squire and the watchful, calculating gaze of the Warden of the West, as he gazed down from the Rock.

**Thanks for reading, ladies and gents. As always, please leave any criticism, praise, predictions, or other feedback you might have in a review, so I know how I might be able to improve. It helps a lot! I'll hopefully have the next chapter out soon, but I make so promises as to when. Until then, goodbye, and thanks again for taking the time to read my story.**


	2. Chapter 2

As he listened to yet another loud belch, followed by a string of curses and a chuckle, spew forth from Robert Baratheon's mouth like wine from a bottle, Alaric wondered just how bad being a kingslayer would really be if a sword through the throat would just shut the damned man up. For what seemed like an eternity he had been accompaning the royal entourage as they made their ponderous way North along the Kingsroad.

"There's nothing like prolonged travel to tell you whose company you can stand, and whose you can't," Alaric remarked to the man riding next to him in a modified saddle. "I'm beginning to understand Jaime's ever-worsening mood, dealing with this all the time." Another noisy outburst from the front of the column, perhaps a particularly amusing joke that His Grace had doubtless made up himself, seemed to punctuate his statement.

"Indeed, though I can't say I find King Robert all bad; his mere presence seems to fill goblets and attract an abundance of whores, and lots of wine combined with lots of tits is never a bad mix in my books." Tyrion Lannister smirked as he surveyed the bleak Northern landscape. "What irritates _me_ is the complete lack of either of the two out here." He waved his stubby arms at their desolate surroundings with mock annoyance.

Alaric laughed almost as loudly as the King himself at that. "Agreed. I've always wondered why Northmen are such a grim lot. I suppose now we know." The pair chuckled, and continued to exchange such jocularities as they rode on at the snail's pace the caravan was proceeding at due to the massive wheelhouse containing the Queen and her brood.

Alaric had been on the road for almost every moment since his departure from Casterly Rock. He'd only arrived in King's Landing the night before the royal family was set to leave, and late at night at that, so he'd only been able to get a few hours of rest before setting off once more. Weariness aside, he had quickly introduced himself to the members of the royal entourage who mattered, and a few of those who didn't.

He'd been recieved warmly by Ser Jaime; Alaric had once been his squire and it had been Jaime who eventually knighted the young man. The middle-aged knight appeared to be grateful to have somebody competent to spar with, though after his fifth consecutive loss to Jaime when they periodically practiced against each other in the evenings in the royal camp it became clear that the older man was still far better than Alaric was. Despite this, Alaric's performance in these sessions appeared to have impressed many of the onlookers who had congregated during these sessions to watch the knights spar. One of those onlookers was Lord Harmond Staunton, apparently the lord of some castle in the Crownlands called Rook's Rest.

"A fine showing from a knight so young, Ser!" the man had called out as the bout between Alaric and Jaime concluded. "What is your name?"

Alaric sighed, removed his dented practice helm, and wiped some of the sweat out of his face. Bruised and beaten, he turned to Lord Staunton and replied, "Ser Alaric Arryn, at your service." He knew full well that Lord Staunton had only been trying to start a conversation, but there was nothing to be gained from being rude. Perhaps this could be one of the allies Lord Tywin had suggested he gather.

"A pleasure to meet you, Ser Alaric." The noble strode forward and and bowed briefly, a sign of respect. Alaric's eyebrow raised slightly. "Lord Harmond Staunton, at your service. I was disgusted, frankly, by what happened with your inheritance." An obvious attempt to curry favor, Alaric knew, but he supposed it couldn't hurt to hear what the man was trying to get out of him.

"I'm grateful for your concern, my Lord, but I suggest we keep such things between ourselves," Alaric said, as he steered Lord Staunton to the outskirts of camp to hopefully avoid any prying eyes or ears. "We never know who might be listening. Now, what can I do for you, Lord Staunton?"

The middle-aged nobleman's demeanor changed entirely once he was out of the public eye, and he leaned forwards purposefully. "I take it you do want to take back what is yours?" At Alaric's nod, he continued. "My son is of the age to be a squire, but he's a bit … soft. Take him as a squire, train him, and make him a good fighter, and I'll have my men back you when the time is right."

Alaric leaned back, eyeing up the man in front of him and considering his options. He would have been very surprised indeed if Lord Staunton would be able to muster even a hundred men-at-arms, but he supposed that even three soldiers were better than none, and taking on another squire was hardly a burden; another lad to care for his armor, horse, and weapons would be a blessing all its own, even without the promise of support. "Consider it done."

Lord Staunton grinned, and waddled off to go fetch his son. Despite himself, Alaric found himself hoping that his new squire and the soldiers he had been promised would not be as fat and obviously unsuited to combat as their liege lord was.

Garibald Staunton, the aforementioned squire, was tall for his age, lithe and limber with long and straight yellow hair. In short, he looked absolutely nothing like his supposed father, who was short and brown-haired, and Alaric privately thought that he would be asking his wife some questions if he was in Lord Staunton's position. After being introduced, Alaric quickly deduced that the young lad was a bit of a pampered brat, but there was nothing like a lot of time on the road, a lot of time polishing chainmail, and a lot of time training with the sword to cure a boy of that, he knew. "He'll do just fine," Alaric said to the grinning Lord Staunton, and with that he had made himself a friend. Hopefully, he thought, there would be more, so that he wouldn't have to storm the Bloody Gate with a few peasants from the Crownlands as his only support.

Alaric dropped Garibald off at his own tent to aquiant himself with his other squire, Damon Wydman. Damon had been sent with him from the Vale to Casterly Rock to serve as his page and retainer, and had become Alaric's squire after Alaric had been knighted. House Wydman could not muster many men, Alaric knew, but he knew Damon's father well enough to know they could probably be counted upon to support his claim when he finally pressed it. For his part, despite being about five years Alaric's junior, Damon himself was fit, competent at his duties, and obedient, with the added bonus that he never asked questions. He wasn't the brightest, but a squire didn't really need to be bright so Alaric didn't concern himself over it. Judging by the friendly glances the two squires gave each other upon seeing each other, Alaric predicted that they would get on just fine. After ordering the pair to get on with their duties, he went to find another Lannister he had been missing the company of.

He had found Tyrion with a whore in his tent and a full flagon of wine on his table, just as expected. Upon his entry, Tyrion had practically lept out of his bed, thrown some coins at the whore and ordered her to leave, and pulled on a jerkin and some trousers, before finally greeting his old friend; the two had met years ago while Alaric was squiring for Tyrion's brother. "Alaric, it's been too long!" exclaimed the dwarf as he waddled over to the table and poured himself a generous glass of wine, before pouring a second one less fully and passing it to Alaric. "Please, please, have a seat, and tell me everything."

With a weary sigh Alaric sank into the offered chair, drank deeply from his goblet of wine, and told Tyrion of what had happened since his father's death and his disenfranchisement. Tyrion listened with a thoughtful expression on his malformed face, and then, once Alaric had finished, spoke. "Well, it would seem that my loving father has hedged his bets on the matter of the Vale. If you do manage to overcome the odds and somehow overthrow Lysa Arryn, mad old bat that she is, then my father will have an ally in the Eyrie, one indebted to him. If you don't, well … all he invested in you was a fancy sword and some fancy armor, all of which are both replaceable and cheap for the richest man in Westeros."

Alaric had not considered this angle, and he looked down at his new sword with a somewhat changed perspective. He'd named the blade Red Talon, and was really quite fond of it, but this new revelation certainly cast it in a different light. "Well," he responded with a hint of moroseness coloring his voice, "I have to try."

Tyrion sat back in his chair and soberly responded, "Yes, yes I suppose you do," with a contemplative look on his face. They sat in silence and drank for some time.

The trip had gone more or less in that fashion for the past few weeks, it seemed. Alaric rode during the day with Tyrion or Lord Staunton and a few of his fellow minor Crownlands nobles. Alaric recalled a Lord Mallery, a Lord Byrch, and a Lord Gaunt, all of whom had seemed rather eager to suck up and, he guessed, could put together field perhaps two hundred men-at-arms at most, and half of those would be ill-equipped conscripts that would likely flee at the first sight of real battle. Of the three of them, Alaric thought that Lord Mallery was likely the best fighter, a tall man with brown hair, brown eyes, and an arming sword hanging by his side. Lord Gaunt wore a sword too, and might have been a killer once, but he was old; from what Alaric could gather his brother had served on the Mad King's Kingsguard and been killed at Duskendale. What with the Crownlanders' constant bickering, toadying, and oneupsmanship over one another, Alaric's evening sparring sessions with Ser Jaime became a relief, as were his later drinking sessions with Tyrion.

Cersei kept herself and her children at a distance from Alaric, which was not unexpected given that he was technically nothing more than a hedge knight in a fancy suit of armor, but it was still irritating. Tywin had seemed to think that it would be beneficial for Alaric to endear himself to the royal children, but this would clearly have to be accomplished some other way, some other time, he told himself.

After a long, cold, grey eternity on the road, something even colder and greyer loomed on the horizon. Alaric had thought it might be a mountain, originally, but a scout came galloping back to the column just before he opened his mouth.

"Winterfell lies ahead, Your Grace!" the man shouted from his horse to King Robert.

"About bloody time!" roared the King in response, before wheeling his horse around to face the rest of the caravan. "Lets get on with it then! The hosipitality of the North awaits us," he declared, before chuckling a bit and resuming his plodding progress forward.

And so it came to pass that Ser Alaric Arryn rode through the gates of Winterfell for the first time.

**A/N: Yeah, I know. It has been an egregiously long time since the first chapter, and this second one probably won't make up for it. I'm sorry. I have been dealing with school, familial problems, breakups, and more fun things and have not been able to devote the time to this story that it deserves. This will hopefully change; I'm already writing the third chapter, which is where this story will really begin to pick up, I swear.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Just in case it isn't clear, there is a bit of a time jump between each chapter, just to speed things along. This chapter will be shorter and consist mostly of setup and I hate writing that, for reasons that will be explained more at the author's note in the end. **

The North, Alaric has decided, is a dull, grey, uninviting wasteland, neither as luxurious as the rolling green hills of the Westerlands nor as majestic as the soaring peaks of the Vale. Mpst of the denizens of this forsaken place appear to have inherited these undesirable aspects of their homeland, to the disappointment of Alaric, whose patience for dullness has already been eroded substantially by the long trip North.

Lord Stark mostly comes across as grim, smiling only briefly and only when he has to. From what he has heard, (which, admittedly, comes mostly from Tyrion and Jaime, neither of which are particularly unbiased as far as the Starks go) the man cares far too much about his own stiff sense of honor and morality, and not enough about anything else. The man has always been a capable enough lord and ruler, to be sure, perhaps just what is needed in a Hand of the King, but there is no doubt in Alaric's mind that spending time with the old wolf will not be an especially pleasant experience.

His wife, Lady Catelyn, was once a Tully of Riverrun and a sibling to Alaric's bitch of a stepmother, Lysa Tully (while the despicable wench is no longer technically named Tully, Alaric will never fall so far as to actually address her as Lysa Arryn). Her icy blue eyes seem to find his the moment that he rides into Winterfell's courtyard, and he knows immediately that she shares her sister's hatred of him, presumably for the sole reason that he once stood in Lysa's precious little Sweetrobin's path to the Lordship of the Vale.

He does not get the chance to interact with any of their children, save for Robb and Sansa, the oldest two. He takes a liking to Robb the moment he makes his intentions to bludgeon Joffrey into the mud of the practice yard known. Joffrey's incessant whinging about every possible thing had, over the course of the long ride North, slowly whittled Alaric's patience with him away until it barely existed at all. When Joffrey, predictably, scuttled away from the future Lord of Winterfell's challenge with his tail between his legs, Alaric decided that a quick spar with the Stark lad might make for some good fun. Fun was apparently a rare commodity in the North, so he was willing to settle for more or less whatever he could get..

"You there. Robb, is it?" He strolled out into the yard from where he had been leaning, against the rough stone wall of the keep. "You seem a solid lad. Care for a bout?"

Robb eyed him up for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not? " The two fetched a pair of blunted training swords and took up their positions. A small gaggle of squires, pages, and various other passerby gathered to spectate.

After a brief moment where the two combatants simply stood there, Robb in a high guard, Alaric in a more defensive position with his sword outstretched, the Stark boy made the first move, lunging with a surprising amount of speed. Alaric blocked it, moving backwards to evade the next blow, then went on the attack himself. Robb had the speed, vigor, and endurance of a grown man, but his technique, while passable, still left something to be desired, and he was often left exposed after an attack. Ducking under a wide swing, Alaric saw his chance and lunged, throwing his opponent off balance. Robb stumbled back, raising his blade in a hurried attempt to block, and promptly slipped in the mud, falling to the ground.

"Well fought," commended Alaric, offering Robb a hand, as any respectful victor would after he'd forced his opponent to the ground. As Robb took it, heaving himself up, Alaric continued. "You're not bad at all, especially for a lad of your age. In a few years you'll be fighting with the best of them."

Robb, though visibly frustrated with the loss, accepted his praise, grinning a bit. "Thank you for your kindness, and for a good spar, Ser Alaric." He paused for a moment to wipe sweat off his brow, then turned towards Alaric again as they made their way to the racks to return their weapons. "One of these days you should face off with my brother, Jon. He's a better sword than I, in truth, though I'm better with the lance."

"Jon? I don't recall seeing any Starks that go by that name," Alaric said, confused, before something that Tyrion had said came back to him. "Oh, is he the bastard?"

Judging by the dark look that appeared on Robb's face when the word "bastard" was used, Alaric decided that he was probably right. Robb said nothing, replacing his sparring sword, nodding a curt farewell, and marching off in the direction of the keep. The boy had spirit, and an admirable loyalty to his half-brother, that much was clear.

Alaric had been much less impressed by Robb's younger sister, Sansa. She would have been pretty, he supposed, given a few years to mature, and she seemed sweet enough, but she seemed to spend every waking moment mooning over Joffrey, of all people. Alaric was forced to wonder if the poor girl was blind, deaf, mentally challenged in some way, or perhaps some mixture of the three, because he imagined it would take one or more of those traits in order to feel anything other than disgust for the Crown Prince. Still, he supposed she was young enough for such foolishness to not be entirely out of the ordinary. Perhaps with time she would become aware of her folly.

Mercifully, after what seemed like a century, it became time to return to the capital, with Lord Stark, as the new Hand of the King, and his daughters in tow. The journey south actually managed to be even more unbearable than the ponderous trek north had been, with the only positive aspects of it being that the further they went, the weather became less and less dismal, and the landscape followed suit. Tyrion's presence had been one of the only tolerable aspects of the previous journey, and he had gone to see the Wall instead of returning to the capital directly, so Alaric spent much of the time riding in sullen silence, or talking with the various courtiers and minor lords from the Crownlands. When the walls of King's Landing came into view, Alaric heaved a great sigh of relief. Here, perhaps, he could finally begin preparing to retake his birthright.

**Yeah, so it has been a really long time since I updated this, I know. I'm sorry, I had been feeling really uninspired with the slow pace of the story, and have also been dealing with IRL stuff. I have more time on my hands now, though, so I'll be trying to update more frequently. Also, I am probably going to have a significant time skip, so the next chapter will probably be right before the war starts. I am doing this because all of this setup is hard to write and probably somewhat boring to read, and frankly I want to get to the action, because once the war starts my plans for this character can really take off and things should become a lot more interesting. We have a lot to look forward to - the war in the Riverlands, the Battle of the Blackwater, and an eventual invasion of the Vale coming down the line, so definitely stay tuned!**

**As usual, leave a review with feedback of any kind, positive or negative! It does help with motivation. Until next time, and thanks for reading!**


End file.
